


From The Ashes

by Hannibal_X_Will



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Possible Asexual Sherlock, Possible Bisexual John, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock is confused, Slow Build, Tragedy, loving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibal_X_Will/pseuds/Hannibal_X_Will
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary tragically passes away, Sherlock is left to heal John's broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tragic News

**Author's Note:**

> *Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock in anyway*
> 
> Hey guys, honestly I'm not sure were this story is going in terms of Sherlock/John - it will either be a platonic relationship (though soul mates) with Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John or full sexual Sherlock/John - we'll see how it goes :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was a bleak, grey autumn morning in London. Sherlock had rung him at 8 o'clock on his day off to announce their latest case. At first John had tried to talk his way out of going, he was meant to accompany Mary to the hospital for her latest scan. The pregnancy was going well so far, they had the first sonogram photo of their baby stuck to the fridge in their kitchen. Today's scan was just a check up, to monitor the baby's development and Mary's health - her stomach was just beginning to show evidence of the unexpected life growing inside of her. 

As soon as John had mentioned the hospital appointment to Sherlock on the phone, the detective had paused - he never liked discussing the baby, John expected he was worried it would change things even more between them. Sherlock was right, as always, having a baby changed everything - far more than just marriage - but John was determined that Sherlock wouldn't slip away out of his life. 

"You should go," Mary had told John, kissing him on the cheek, "I'll be fine going on my own, it's just a checkup after all." 

John had tried to argue, saying he didn't want to miss a single moment, but Mary was stubborn and refused to budge on the matter - sometimes she could be so like Sherlock. So, an hour later, John met Sherlock at the crime scene down a rubbish-strewn alleyway tapped off by police tap.

John watched as Sherlock crouched next to the body, examining the minute details with his small magnifying glass. Lestrade stood beside him, arms folded across his chest, frowning with concentration as he tried to predict any of the theories Sherlock would any minute propose. 

How many times had he done that? John wondered as he waited for his friend to straighten up and declare his findings. How many times had Sherlock examined a body at a crime scene? How many times had John watched him? The question was rhetorical, yet to John it never lost its edge and Sherlock never ceased to astound him. 

Suddenly John's mobile buzzed in his pocket. 

"Sorry," he said quickly, pulling out his phone and glancing at the screen, it was an unknown number. John frowned, weighing up whether to ignore it or not.

"Stop thinking, John," Sherlock said loudly, standing up tall to survey the body from a new angle, "you're putting me off."

John chose not to dignify Sherlock's rudeness with a response, though it didn't really irritate him, it was so commonplace after all. His phone stopped ringing and he returned it to his trouser pocket.

"So," Lestrade said, stepping forwards and clearing his throat, "what do you think, Sherlock?"

Before the detective could answer, John's phone buzzed again.

"I think it'd better answer that," he said, pulling it from his pocket and walking to edge of the crime scene.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Mr John Watson?" The woman on the other end of the line asked.

Frowning, John replied, "yes, you are."

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news Mr Watson..."

Later, John couldn't recall the hospital receptionist actual words, it was all a blur mixed with the sensation that he was falling into a bottomless pit. His mobile slipped from his hand as his whole body went limp with disbelief. 

Dimly, he was aware of Sherlock appearing out of nowhere at his side, his normally closed-off expression replaced with one of anxious concern. 

"John, what is it? What has happened?"

He wasn't able to answer at first, he just stared at Sherlock, his mind blank and chest heaving, it had felt like someone was ripping his heart from his chest.

"John!" Sherlock sounded desperate now and John realised he had stumbled and was sagging against his friend's taller frame. Sherlock held him up, his hands awkwardly hovering over him. Comforting wasn't Sherlock's area, nor was physical contact, yet he pushed his boundaries for John as his friend broke down.

"T-there was an accident..." John sobbed, his voice muffled into Sherlock's shoulder, "Mary, she - she's..." 

"Oh John," breathed Sherlock, finally wrapping his arms properly around his friend's trembling body, "I'm so sorry."

It was painfully ironic, John thought, that the first time he and Sherlock ever hugged was at the wedding and the second time was at the news of Mary's death.


	2. Confusion at the Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy :)

The taxi Mary had been in had been hit as it passed through traffic lights at a crossroads. The speeding truck had jumped the red light and driven straight into the side of the taxi. Both Mary and the driver of the truck were killed instantly, the taxi driver was in critical condition with massive head trauma - he wasn't expected to wake up from his coma. 

John had wanted to see Mary's body, to see his wife was last time, but he was told he shouldn't. Sherlock had seen the wreckage, what remained of the taxi, he could imagine why the hospital tried to prevent John from seeing Mary's body. He had managed to convince John not to and later at the funeral it was a closed corset.

Exactly one week later Sherlock found himself sitting in a small church surrounded by the same people who not a few months ago had been celebrating Mary and John's wedding. Now they were all dressed in black, faces pale and drawn, nothing but sadness and pity in their faces - they might as well have been a different group of people altogether.

The vicar was speaking, but Sherlock did not listen, all his attention was on John. The ex-army doctor sat beside him, eyes fixed on the coffin which sat elevated, surrounded by flowers. He wore a black suit, midnight blue shirt and a black tie. His skin looked as if it was made of wax, clammy and sickly pale, like a corpse. His eyes were hollow and dark, all emotion had faded from them. He looked so fragile, as if the slightest breeze would blow him over, he appeared to have aged ten years. 

Sherlock found himself thinking whether John had looked the same when Mary had found him, after he had faked his death. The detective cursed his own selfishness, yet he couldn't help it, the reason why he always compared things against his own self was because it was the only life he understood. Other people with their emotions and impulses were foreign to him, he couldn't make sense of them. Until recently he hadn't needed to - or wanted to. But John had changed that, from the moment he had met the ex-soldier he had known he was different, he was someone sherlock wanted to learn to understand, to open up to...

Movement disturbed Sherlock's thinking. The congregation were getting to their feet - the funeral was over. Should he say something? Do something? Sherlock wracked his brains for any social acts he had observed of times of grieving. An idea came to mind, he moved towards the coffin.

John couldn't bring himself to say anything, he felt if he did then he was crumble. Instead he watched as Sherlock stepped up to the coffin and plucked a white lily from one of the many bouquets.

Returning to John's side, Sherlock reached for his friend's wrist and gently pushed the stem of the flower into his palm.

"Why do I want this?" John asked hoarsely, looking from the lily to Sherlock with red, puffy eyes.

"Keep it," Sherlock replied, "we'll ask mrs Hudson for a vase and keep it in the flat - to remember."

"I won't need help remembering, Sherlock!" John snapped, shoving the flower against the taller man's chest, "my wife is dead - my unborn child is dead - I do not want to keep a flower from the funeral bouquet!"

Sherlock stared after John as the man marched away towards the door. He held the lily carefully in his hands, not noticing that it's pollen had stained his shirt.

"Oh dear," mrs Hudson appeared by his elbow, "it was a nice gesture, Sherlock, but not the one John needed at this time."

"I - I thought a flower was an appropriate gift when someone is grieving," Sherlock murmured, the confusion painfully tight in his chest. He was anxious, had he offended John? Had he made things worse?

"It is, dear," said mrs Hudson gently, putting a hand on Sherlock's arm, "just not like that."

Not understanding, Sherlock sighed and looked back over his shoulder at the coffin to find a curtain had been drawn around it, obscuring it from view. 

What should he do? John needed someone, he couldn't face such lose and grief on his own, human emotions may be somewhat confusing to him but even Sherlock knew that much. But he didn't know how to be there for him, what to say or how to act - social convention had just failed him so now he was left totally in the dark. 

His thoughts must had been written across his face for mrs Hudson spoke again, "You just need to be there, Sherlock, that's all. Just be there so he knows you care. When he's ready John will come to you."

"But what if he's never ready? What will happen to John? What should I do?"

Mrs Hudson couldn't answer Sherlock's questions, all she could do was pat him on the arm and say, "go find John, Sherlock, tonight will be the most difficult. Just...do what feels right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment <3


	3. Moonlight and Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff turned into angst (sorry!). Sorry for any mistakes!

Moonlight was such a chilling light, Sherlock observed when he awake in the middle of the night to find the curtains open and his bedroom filled with a pale silver glow. It was almost a full moon outside the window of 221B and Sherlock sat up, shivering. The light was beautiful, yet eerie somehow. It was a lonely light, distant and cold, not like the sun, warm and comforting. But Sherlock found moonlight relaxing with the stillness of night, it helped him to close it all off - his mind, his deductions...everything.

From the kitchen there came a crash - something being dropped and shattering on the floor. Sherlock froze, his eyes reflecting the silvery light as he stared at his bedroom door. 

Sherlock pushed back the covers and leapt out of bed, thinking worriedly, John! He had completely forgotten for a moment what had happened, the accident, Mary's death, John moving back in with him...

Sherlock pulled on his silk dressing gown and hurried out of his room towards the kitchen. He found John on his knees, picking up the pieces of a broken mug.

"John?" Sherlock said carefully, the man had been so jumpy since it had happened.

The ex-army doctor started, catching his thumb on the ragged edge of china.

"Bugger it!" John shouted, jumping to his feet, holding his bleed hand.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked anxiously, moving quickly forwards to examine John's cut thumb.

"Fine, Sherlock," his friend snapped, turning his back on him and reaching for the kitchen roll.

"No," Sherlock stopped his friend from wrapping his thumb in the tissue, "you should clean the wound first."

"I'd hardly call it a 'wound'," John grumbled, but he allowed Sherlock to usher him to the sink and turn on the cold water tap.

Sherlock gently wrapped his long fingers around John's wrist and held his bleeding thumb under the cold water. Shuddering from the abrupt chill, John closed his tired eyes and let out his breath.

"I'm sorry I woke you," John said, opening his eyes and glancing at the detective standing so close he could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"No bother," Sherlock replied honestly, offering John an awkward smile.

"Stop doing that," the ex-army doctor muttered, looking at the rusty coloured water swirling around the plug hole.

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"Forcing yourself to smile all the time, tiptoeing around me like I'm a bomb waiting to go off. I'm...dealing with it, Sherlock, I'm ok."

Liar. Sherlock was lost at what to say, things had suddenly moved into an area he wasn't comfortable in. He thought of what mrs Hudson had told him, "do what feels right."

"You don't have to 'deal' with Mary's death on your own, John," Sherlock said, putting his other hand on the shorter man's shoulder, squeezing (he hoped) reassuringly.

John found himself leaning slightly closer towards Sherlock and he sighed again.

"I know you care, Sherlock, and I get that you are here for me but -"

"- you don't have to shut me out, John," Sherlock interrupted, reading the look on his friend's face and the tone of his voice, "I'm not going to leave you again, it was a necessity for you to believe I was dead before - it was the only way to keep you safe. But you don't need to fear me disappearing again, I won't."

John stared at Sherlock, his eyes flicking down then up. His throat had closed off and his heart was pounding loudly in his ears. Sherlock could feel John's elevated heart rate at his wrist beneath his finger tips.

"I-I," John stammered, "my thumb's going numb."

"Oh - sorry," Sherlock pulled John's hand out from beneath the icy cold water and reached for the small first aid kit they kept on top of the nearby cupboard. He found a plaster and quickly ripped open the packaging. 

Before John could speak, Sherlock was holding John's hand carefully in his and gently covered the cut with the plaster. John stared, totally taken aback by the sheer look of care and concentration on the dark-haired man's face. He appeared like a first-time father with his young son or daughter after they had scrapped their knee whilst learning to ride their bike. 

John's heart contracted with loss and he pulled his hand back sharply. 

"Did I do something wrong?" Asked Sherlock. The worry in his voice confused John.

"No," he said, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes - they were as silver as the moon tonight, "no you did nothing wrong, Sherlock, I'm just so tired."

"You're having trouble sleeping," Sherlock observed with a blink of an eye, it was an extremely easy deduction to make, he suspected even Lestrade could have made it without his help.

John nodded reluctantly, "I was just making myself a hot chocolate, childish I know, but whenever I had nightmares about Afghanistan Mary would make me..."

Sherlock felt a stab of very human sympathy for his friend as John trailed off, face grimacing with the painful memory. He stepped into John's personal space, noting with slightly amusement how John no longer stepped or leant back, just tilted his head up to meet his gaze head on.

"Go to bed, John," Sherlock told him, "I will bring you your hot chocolate."

Five minutes later Sherlock entered John's room to find the man pretending to be asleep. He didn't speak, just sat the hot drink down on the bedside table. For a moment he looked down at John, his brow was furrowed as he concentrated on acting asleep and his blond hair (now flecked with grey) was dishevelled. Sherlock was struck by the sudden urge to smooth down the hair, to run his fingers through it and maybe even down John's cheek...

The detective turned and hurried from the room, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock leant against the wall, breathing hard. The urge was so unexpected and new that it frightened and confused him. What had suddenly made him feel like that? Why had he wanted to do it? With those questions and more whizzing through his mind, Sherlock returned to his own bed, though anymore of his rare night sleep had vanished.

John waited until he heard the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door close before he sat up and reached for the mug. He eyed the dark brown liquid for a moment, wondering if this was the first time Sherlock had ever made hot chocolate, it wouldn't surprise him. Gingerly, John took a sip of the drink. The hot chocolate was perfect, with none of the lumps Mary's had always had lingering on the top. Feeling sick, he quickly put down the drink as the tears burnt his eyes.

The next morning when Sherlock's asked him how the hot chocolate had been, John would reply "God awful" in the hope that his flatmate would never make it again so he wouldn't have to feel that same sickening feeling of betrayal for liking Sherlock's drink more than Mary's again. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock could always tell when he was lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it :) please comment <3


	4. Dinner and Snowflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from John's POV :) so please enjoy, I had more fun writing from his than Sherlock's (which is probably why this chapter is longer than the others haha). As always, sorry for any mistakes!

John found over the next couple of days that the only thing preventing the miserable bottomless pit in his chest from swallowing him whole was Sherlock. Whenever he was alone the ache would spread through his entire body until he couldn't bring himself to move. Loneliness stalked his footsteps like a great black dog and he found himself involuntarily bursting into years. 

He tried going to work but it quickly became apparent he was in no fit state and he was sent home. Distracting himself was out of the picture so he was left totally at the mercy of his grief. That was why he quickly moved back in with Sherlock, much to the detective's joy he was sure, though he had the common sense not to say so aloud. Like he hoped, being around another person helped lessen the pain in his chest. 

But Sherlock was...not Sherlock. He wasn't his usual rude, self-work obsessed mad genius self and it frustrated John. He didn't want his friend to act differently towards him, he had moved back into 221B hoping it would feel like home and would sooth his grief. But with Sherlock acting so caring it felt like a completely different place. 

Two weeks after the funeral John found himself sitting in his favourite armchair watching some antiques program on TV when Sherlock flopped down opposite him and declared they were going out later. 

"What do you mean 'going out'?" John asked the detective, frowning - the idea of leaving the flat filled him with a mixture of relief and fear. What if he had another one of his random breakdowns in the middle of a crowded street? 

"As in you and I are going outside of the flat to diverge from our normal routine,” Sherlock replied, "I've arranged for us to go out for dinner later." 

John opened his mouth to argue but his words died on his tongue at the look of anticipation on Sherlock's face. He closed his mouth and scowled at the TV. 

“You need to eat a proper meal, John,” Sherlock went on, “you’ve hardly eaten since it happened.” 

“I don’t think you should be giving me a lecture on eating, Sherlock,” John snapped angrily, his temper catching them both my surprise. 

Sherlock snorted, leaning back in his seat and observed John in his cool, calculating manner. His eyes had turned darker, to a steely green-grey and, with a sigh, John apologised, “I’m sorry, you are right – as always.” 

Sherlock smiled one of his rare honest smiles and said cheerily, “Excellent, we leave in an hour.” 

Exactly one hour later Sherlock was bungling John out of the door and down the stairs. The ex-army doctor pulled on his coat as we stumbled down the stairs, grumbling under his breath. 

Sherlock put his arm out for a taxi outside on the street and John shivered, doing the zip of his coat up to his chine and burying his hands in his pockets. The evening sky overhead was thick with heavy grey clouds and the normal winter chill had turned icy. 

“It’s going to snow,” John observed just as a black taxi pulled up for them. 

“An obvious deduction, John,” Sherlock said, opening the taxi door, “by the temperature in the air and the density of the cloud cover overhead we can expect snow within the next hour.” 

“You missed your true calling, Sherlock,” John said as he slipped into the welcoming warmth of the heated taxi. 

“And what might that be?” The detective asked as he slid in next to John and slammed the taxi door. 

“You could have been a weather-girl on TV,” John was surprised to hear a faint chuckle in his tone, it had been the first time since the accident he had felt anything alluding towards laughter. Maybe Sherlock’s plan of getting him out of the house hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. 

It turned out dinner was at the small Italian restaurant owned by Angelo. The place hadn’t changed John saw as he stepped inside, everything was still the same. 

Angelo grinned broadly at the sight of them and quickly directed them to the same table next to the front window he had sat them at before. John remembered how Angelo had brought a candle for the table, he – like many people – had thought he and Sherlock had been dating. The memory brought a smile to John’s face, which grew into a soft laugh as he saw there was already a candle on the empty table. 

“So wonderful to see you both again,” Angelo boomed, handing them menus as they sat down. 

“You too, Angelo,” Sherlock said and John nodded in agreement, looking down at the menu. As he read down the list of Italian food his stomach gave a loud rumble, so loud that Sherlock heard it and shot him a look. 

“Sorry,” John muttered, he felt his cheeks warm slightly. He blinked, confused, why was he blushing? He didn’t blush for Sherlock Holmes. 

Angelo excused himself and Sherlock put down his menu and turned to look out of the window. 

“You’re not going to drag me out before I get to eat my meal after some random taxi again, are you?” John asked jokingly, he truly was feeling much better; the heavy ache of grief on his shoulders was lifting. 

“No,” Sherlock replied, the corner of his mouth twisting, “not this time.” 

They sat in comfortable silence for a minute before Angelo reappeared to take their order – to John’s surprise Sherlock actually ordered something, though he didn’t comment on it. 

There was a young couple sitting on the next table to them and John found his eyes drawn to the diamond engagement ring of the woman’s finger. The diamond glinted in the candlelight ever time she picked up her glass. 

Sadness tightened around John’s heart, painfully squeezing his ribs together. He was so lost in his despair, eyes fixed on the newly-engaged couple, that he did not notice he was crumpling the menu in his fist. 

“John!” Sherlock’s stern voice snapped him back. He jerked in his seat, looking down to see Sherlock had covered his clenched fist with his long-elegant fingers – wait, what? 

“Are you alright?” John nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat, he tasted blood. 

“Y-yes,” he stammered, unclenching his fists. Sherlock removed his hand, placing it on his side of the table. John found himself staring at the hand. He could feel its ghost left behind on his skin, it tingled, his cheeks felt warm again. 

“Do you want to return to Baker Street?” Sherlock eyed John worriedly, “it was a mistake bringing you here – I’m sorry – we’ll leave –“ 

“- No,” John said quickly, catching Sherlock’s arm as the detective began to rise from his chair, “it wasn’t a mistake. It is – I mean – it was helping me, until I saw...” 

Sherlock turned around in his seat, following John’s eyes to the young couple. Understanding dawned on his face as he caught side of the ring. 

“Here,” said the detective, standing up and gesturing for John to do the same, “swap seats with me, that way you won’t be able to see them.” 

They did this and John felt the tightness surrounding his chest ease, though the weight on his shoulders was back. 

Sherlock observed this and asked, “Is there anything else I can do to help?” 

The back of John’s hand began to tingle again, he suppressed a shiver. Clearly not good enough however, for beneath the table Sherlock stretched out his long legs so they brushed John’s. 

This time John was certain he was blushing as the contact instantly chased the weight on his shoulders away. He opened his mouth to say something, awkwardly meeting Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Sherlock, I –“ 

But he was interrupted by Angelo arriving with their food. For the rest of the evening Sherlock kept his legs tangled with John’s beneath the table and after the first five minutes the awkwardness faded away and John found himself relaxing, enjoying the feeling of physical contact. 

After the meal as they get ready to leave, Sherlock helped John on with his coat and turned the collar of his own black coat up against the winter chill outside. 

As soon as they stepped out of the warm restaurant John saw the snow. A light dusting already covered the pavement all around and as he watched large, denser flakes swirled down from the sky. 

“Told you,” Sherlock whispered close to John’s ear, making the ex-soldier jump slightly. 

“I never doubted you,” John replied, nudging Sherlock in the side with his elbow, “Go on, get us a taxi, its bloody freezing!” 

Sherlock chuckled, staying close to John’s side for a moment - as if he was savouring the contact - before he obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it :D Please leave a comment! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment <3


End file.
